Highway Robbery
by Morwen Tindomerel
Summary: It's spring in Ankh-Morpork and what you're smelling is *not* love in the air. As usual quite a lot is going on in town; riots in the foreign quarter, a major crime in the works and of course political intrigue. And then there's Carrot's cousin....
1. Chapter 1

Marie-Suzette rode into Ankh-Morpork with the morning produce. People stared. They stared at her mount, a bearded male unicorn that shone like moonlight, at the small dragon that swooped and glided merrily above her head not unlike a brightly colored if somewhat reptilian butterfly and at the slender, slinky cats, nine black and one white, who rode regally on Marie-Suzette's lap and shoulder and the unicorn's crupper and wove in and out between its silver shod hooves, but most of all they stared at Marie-Suzette herself. Her simple white dress clung to every slender curve of a willowy figure, there were ropes of pearls around her neck, her wrists and her unbelievably tiny waist. Three gold rings, one set with a diamond, another with a sapphire and the third with a ruby glistened on long, delicate fingers. Pale golden hair, that seemed to glimmer with its own light, fell down her back brushing the unicorn's withers with looped braids to keep it out of a face that could only be described as perfect. Marie-Suzette ignored the stares, she was used to them.

In the crowd Mr. John Point, a well dressed gentleman of obvious importance, tore his eyes away and continued, against the traffic, out of the Deosil Gate taking up his station on a low mound - it couldn't really be called a hill - overlooking the main highway. Shortly thereafter the daily wagon train to Pseudopolis issued forth, big creaking wooden things pulled by teams of oxen with passengers riding on the roofs and more people trudging alongside to enjoy the protection of the Merchant Guild's armed guard. Towards the end of the train there was a different kind of wagon, not so large but pulled by several more oxen as it was entirely covered with steel plate. This was the strong wagon carrying the weekly gold shipment to Ankh-Morpork's bankers in Pseudopolis. Mr. Point watched the train pass with a most thoughtful expression on his face before reentering the city.

He wound his way through the broad and airy streets of uptown and the cramped and crowded downtown streets to the palatial headquarters of the Thieves Guild, entered with a polite nod to the apprentice on door duty and made his way up several flights of stairs to an office with a big window and even bigger desk. A decidedly rotund and definitely overdressed 'gentleman' (inverted commas automatically attached themselves to the word in his case) lounged behind said desk, feet propped up on a blotter, chair leaned back to a positively hazardous angle.

He removed the cigar from his mouth. "Do something for you, Point?"

"I have an idea," Master Thief John Point replied, taking a seat without being asked.

"Well, let it out, man, before it dies of solitary confinement!"

Point ignored the pleasantry. "A crime," he said, "a big crime like in the old days, not the penny-ante stuff we get up to today."

"Budget," Junior Assistant Guildmaster Rogar Whinge said laconically.

"We're well under budget, as you know," Point replied. "The income from inn-sewer-rants doesn't count now does it?" Whinge grunted and Point went on: "That's what we do these days isn't it? Collect rant money from the marks - aside from pocket-picking, purse snatching and minor pilfering by the juniors. Don't really have the right to call ourselves Thieves anymore. We should change our name to something like the Guild of Inn-sewer-rants Agents!"

Whinge grunted again, his plump face doing its best to contract in a frown but defeated by the fat filling every possible wrinkle. "We're doing all right."

"Oh yes, raking in the money, I grant you that. But what about pride? What about upholding the great traditions of our forbearers? We get no respect these days. We've become fa - er - domesticated, safe, predictable. What kind of reputation is that for self respecting thieves? "

"Mmm," said Whinge noncommittally

"Now if we should pull a really big job, something bold and audacious -"

"No upsetting the Patrician," Whinge interrupted sharply. "Some of us got families to think of you know."

"Big, bold, audacious, but within the budget," Point hastily amended. "Nothing Vetinari could object to - or even Commander Vimes."

Whinge snorted his disbelief. Point smiled: "Mark I have in mind will get no sympathy from Old Stoneface believe you me, Assistant Guildmaster,"

"Mr. Boggis doesn't want to rock the boat, " Whinge observed. "Raking in the rants and petty pilfering is all right by him."

"Mr. Boggis is getting a bit past it in my opinion," Point said with a distinctly pointed innocence. "Just about due for an honorable retirement if you ask me. A really big, flashy, profitable crime might be just the thing to give him the necessary push - if you know what I mean, sir."

Whinge's feet hit the floor as did all four legs of his chair. "Interesting. Very interesting. Just what is it you have in mind, Mr. Point?"

--

Ankh-Morpork was not exactly a shining city on a hill, the Princess Marie-Suzette reflected after an hour or two of wandering its back alleys, more like a somewhat dingy metropolis on a muddy plain - but at least she'd lost the crowds. And what in Ephebe's name was that smell?

"Oh," she said out loud.

She had arrived at the banks of the River Ankh, at least so she assumed. The surface was a sort of greenish-brown with an oily, iridescence coiling in lazy patterns across it. And it flowed very slowly, like semi-solid pancake batter being poured by an extremely patient cook. The odor was quite indescribable so Marie-Suzette didn't bother to try, even to herself.

'Smelly, isn't it?' a cheerful voice said inaudibly.

'All right for you,' another, grumpier, voice answered soundlessly, 'you can fly up and get a breath of fresh air anytime you like!'

"The fourth circle of Hell smelled worse," Marie-Suzette observed. A number of feline voices rumbled something between a mew and purr. "Though not by much," she admitted. "Let's look for a bridge shall we?"

--

The sun rose higher. Ankh-Morpork bustled about its daily business of cutting throats both literal and metaphorical. Members of the Day Watch patrolled, two by two. Troll with dwarf, living with undead, giant with gnome, man with woman. The City Watch was the most diverse body in Ankh-Morpork - from a certain point of view. From another, that of Commander His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, it was the most homogenous. As he told every new batch of recruits, the moment you put on the badge you were no longer a human, a troll, a dwarf, or whatever - you were a copper, and every other copper was your brother, except when she was your sister. Something, possibly the granite set of his jaw, the gimlet gleam of his eye or the steely rasp of his voice managed to almost magically instill a similar conviction in each new set of Watchmen.

Thus Constable Precious Jolson, human female, two meters tall and proportionately broad in shoulders and hips, regarded her partner, pictsie Nicht Nought-Naethin, five inches tall in his issue boots and weighing four ounces sopping wet, as an equal and comrade-in-arms for whom she would gladly shed blood, preferably somebody else's but her own if absolutely necessary, secure in the knowledge that he felt exactly the same way about her. The Watch took care of its own!

Their current beat was marbletown on the Ankh side of the river, a very upscale area near the docks, populated by rich merchants from other cities on the plain and even farther places. It had big houses set well back from tree lined roads, the finest restaurants in Ankh-Morpork and lots of fancy, overpriced shops with names like 'La Emporia Granda' or 'The Batique Boutique'. It was most emphatically not the sort of place where one expected street affrays, which was why Jolson and Nicht found it almost impossible to believe their eyes as one evolved right before the aforesaid incredulous orbs.

A phalanx of Serapians backed a sallow man with a curly moustache, the whole dozen or so clad in the national costume of exquisitely tailored suits with an abundance of lace at throats and wrists, a-twinkle with cuff-links and tie-pins set with stones the size of pigeon - or even hens' - eggs. They confronted a similar number of equally angry gentlemen in the long colorful coats and fur hats of Pseudopolitans led by a heavily bearded fellow with bristling eyebrows who was shouting at Mr. Moustache, who shouted right back while their fellow citizens acted as chorus.

Constables Jolson and Nicht hovered indecisively in the middle distance. "We ought do summat," the pictsie said dubiously as the first punch flew.

Jolson, a big strapping girl who wouldn't have hesitated a moment to wade into a gang confrontation and bang heads together, answered; "Such as?"

Nicht didn't know. Laying about with truncheons and shouting 'What's all this? What's all this?' didn't seem to quite fit the circumstances.

Moustache now had Beard on the ground, they rolled around trying to choke each other as their followers inexpertly punched and kicked.

"Noo too good at it are they?" Nicht observed.

"They might hurt each other," Jolson worried as a fur hat sailed by.

"Weary themselves out more like," Nicht answered cynically.

"Thing is they're not Morporkian citizens," Jolson said thoughtfully.

"But they be in Ankh-Morpork," said Nicht.

"True," said Jolson. Two Pseudopolitans and one Serapian staggered to their feet and fled in opposite directions.

"On the o'er hand they're not damaging ony Morporkian property."

"Just themselves."

"Noo problem of our'n that."

"We're supposed to keep the peace," said Jolson.

"Or pick up the pieces," said Nicht.

A voice soared over the constables' heads like the music of silver trumpets. "What is this?!" Mercantile gentlemen froze mid-punch and choke and all heads turned towards its source.

A lady in a white gown sat on a white horse with the sun behind her like her own personal aura. Eyes watered, dazzled by the brightness. "Can I believe what I am seeing?" the voice continued. "Are gentlemen of Serap brawling in the streets like common drunks?"

"I ken a few drunks who'd noo appreciate that," Nicht muttered in Jolson's ear.

The merchants staggered apart trying to straighten their clothes. "Ma'am, ma'am, these Pseudopolitans -" Moustache spat out the word like it tasted bad.

The lady didn't let him finish. "I am aware that our two great cities are currently experiencing difficult relations," she said, "but that is no reason for distinguished gentlemen like yourselves to act like snot nosed schoolboys!"

"And I know some snot nosed schoolboys who'd resent that," Jolson muttered to Nicht.

"Gentlemen have more elegant ways of settling their differences," the lady continued. "If offense has been given you may send your seconds to call in the approved manner."

"Yes, ma'am," said Moustache meekly, "sorry, ma'am."

Her head turned. "As for you, citizens of Pseudopolis, whatever our differences I had at least thought you to be gentlemen of honor and dignity!"

"Yes, ma'am," Beard said meekly, "sorry, ma'am."

"Now get along home all of you," the lady said crisply. The men slunk away obediently, shoulders hunched and heads hanging.

The two constables watched fascinated as the lady rode towards them out of the sun. They saw that the 'horse' had a sharp horn on its forehead, that a number of black cats and one white rode on its back or wove between its hooves, and they noticed for the first time the small, opalescent dragon flapping lazily after the lady. Dragons are usually far more noticeable than ladies but not in this case. She stopped in front of them and Nicht and Jolson found themselves being sucked into the glimmering violet vortex of her eyes.

"Excuse me, Constable," she spotted the pictsie on Jolson's shoulder, "pardon me, Constables. Could you point me to the nearest bridge."

Jolson surfaced, gasping. "A few blocks thataway, ma'am."

A smile irradiated them both, turning brains to mush. "Thank you."

Jolson and Nicht stared after her until she disappeared round a corner.

"Who was that then?" the pictsie breathed.

"No idea," the girl answered.

--

"You're insane," Mr. Whinge said with considerable force and conviction.

"Barking mad. Not fit to be let out without a keeper -"

"Just listen, sir, please." Mr. Point began to talk very fast, slowing as thoughtful consideration pushed and shoved sheer horror off the Assistant Guildmaster's moonlike countenance.

"If it worked..." he breathed at last.

"It will work, sir. I stake my life on it!"

"Truer words were never spoke," said Mr. Whinge.


	2. Chapter 2

Marie-Suzette crossed the Ankh bridge and wandered hubward through the Shades. She picked up a new train of followers as she rode slowly down the mean streets studying the dingy, soot stained, half-timber facades. Finally she saw what she was looking for, a wide many lighted window overhanging the street above an inn sign, a tin bucket. She stopped and dismounted.

"Don't kick or bite anyone, Argaunt," she said to the unicorn.

"No problem," the grumpy mental voice answered. Argaunt shot a red glinting eye back over his shoulder. "As long as they keep their distance."

"I think I can guarantee that, " the dragon said, roosting on his friend's back.

"Thank you Fafnir." Marie-Suzette looked down at the cats twining about her feet. " And you lot behave too!"

"Mrrrow."

Marie-Suzette went inside. The tap room seemed empty, though snores floating from dark corners suggested that some patrons had not yet departed. A man stood behind the counter, wiping glasses in immemorial innkeeper fashion. He froze, mid-wipe, and stared.

Marie-Suzette gave him a smile, his eyes reflected it glassily. "Good morning, sir, do you have rooms to rent? Specifically the one overlooking the street?"

"Gurg." Marie-Suzette waited patiently as the innkeeper remembered how to talk. "That is yes, miss."

"Oh good." She carefully refrained from smiling, she wanted the poor man coherent. "What rent?"

"Dollar a week?" he hazarded.

"Oh I'd say it was worth at least three," Marie-Suzette decided and took a large gold coin from the purse in her sleeve. "Will this do for a down payment?"

The innkeeper stared blankly at the Omnian doubloon in his palm, then closed his fingers over it. "Yes'm, this'll do fine. We'll need a little time to straighten up -"

Marie-Suzette nodded, "I need to find stabling for my mount. Can you recommend anyone?"

"Er, Hobson has the biggest livery stable in town."

"That should do nicely, I'll be back in an hour or so."

"Yes, miss."

Mr. Cheese watched Marie-Suzette out the door, bit the doubloon leaving deep teeth-marks, took a breath and shouted "Dick! Bob! Clear out the big lumber room post haste, and wash it down well, do you hear?"

Needless to say Mr. Hobson proved equally obliging.

"It's very important to keep steel or iron well away from Argaunt," Marie-Suzette said earnestly, "it makes him vicious."

The stable owner looked into the unicorn's evilly glinting eyes and nodded fervent agreement. "Yes miss, I understand, miss."

"He eats hay and oats just like a horse, oh and I want the straw changed daily, please."

"Whatever you say, miss."

"Cats will be wandering in and out, please don't molest them."

"No, miss, wouldn't think of it, miss."

"And Fafnir, my dragon, will be visiting from time to time, don't worry, he's quite safe."

"Yes, miss."

"I think that's everything. Thank you again, Mr. Hobson."

"Thank you, miss."

The room at the Bucket was almost as large as the bar below and so clean it sparkled. The air smelled strongly of carbolic. Marie-Suzette risked giving her landlord another smile. "Thank you, Mr. Cheese, this is exactly what I wanted."

"Yes, miss, glad to please, miss." There was a brief silence. He stood there, staring at her, rather like a dog looking in the window of a butcher shop.

"I won't detain you further," she hinted delicately.

"Miss?"

"I'm sure you're a busy man, Mr. Cheese."

"Miss?"

So much for subtlety. "I'm sure you have much business to see to, Mr. Cheese, I'll just settle in now shall I?"

That worked. "Yes, miss." He closed the door behind him.

Marie-Suzette looked around. A clear effort had been made to make the big room pleasing. The floor was scrubbed white, cheap prints of famous paintings, including the Mona Ogg, hung on the walls and there were chintz curtains flanking the big window. The bed in the corner opposite the fireplace had a patchwork quilt on it and a rag rug beside it. A trestle table stood under the window, a wooden chair beside it with a gaudy crewelwork cushion on the seat, and there was a fire laid ready in the grate.

First Marie-Suzette went to the window and opened two of the four diamond paned lattices. Five cats immediately sprang onto the table and out. Two more sat there blinking, while a third curled up in the chair.

Marie-Suzette stretched out experimentally on the bed, winced a little, and dragged the feather mattress off it. The bedstead was a shallow wooden box on legs, a toothpick, a penny-piece and a few bits of grit lay scattered inside, she picked them out one by one, replaced the mattress and tried again.

"Much better." She got up and went to open the saddle bags lying on the table. She pulled out another feather mattress, piling it on top of the one Mr. Cheese had supplied, then remade the bed with a set of silk sheets taken from the same bag along with an extra pillow or two.

Reaching deeper into the bag she pulled out a Klatchian carpet, unrolling it before the fireplace. The cats promptly abandoned the table for its rose and indigo softness. Marie-Suzette removed a mirror and a writing box from the saddle-bag and put them on the table. Then, reaching in shoulder deep, she brought out a small folding stool of carved ivory that she set up next to the bed, a silver lamp she hung on a hook over the head, and finally a very large spiral shell which she put on the stool. The room immediately filled with the sound and smell of the sea.

Curled in an empty corner Fafnir sighed contentedly. 'No place like home is there?'

--

A mile or two across the city a small man in a pleat perfect uniform with mirror polished armor stood on the grey-green rug of the Oblong Office reading from a sheaf of papers in his hands. "Final total; eleven cases of disturbing the peace, seven personal attacks, and four affrays with violence in the last week, your lordship - sir!" Sergeant-Adjutant A. E. Pessimal ended his report, saluted and fell into parade rest.

"You don't expect that kind of thing uptown," Sam Vimes said from his chair facing the Patrician's desk. "The men aren't sure how to react, we don't want to create an intercity incident."

Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers. "May I say, Commander, that you are showing unusual discretion in this matter?"

Vimes shrugged. "They're not hurting anybody but themselves."

"Ah," the Patrician nodded, "I see. And if Morporkian persons or property should be damaged?"

"Well, sir, in that case I think I'd worry a lot less about politics," Vimes answered. He frowned. "Wish I knew what's got their backs up, snooty foreign merchants don't generally brawl like street gangs."

Vetinari's eyebrows rose and he gave a little sigh. "You don't follow the international news do you, Vimes?"

"Nossir, got all the news I can handle right here in Ankh-Morpork."

"Quite. However if you did pay a quantum of attention to the outer world, you would know that Pseudopolis and Serap are teetering on the verge of war."

Vimes blinked. "Sir? They're on opposite sides of the plain, sir." (1)

"And we are right in between," the Patrician answered dryly, "so I have offered my services as mediator."

"They're on opposite sides of the plain," Vimes repeated blankly, "what can they have to go to war over?"

"If my information is correct an unfortunate phrase used in the Pseudopolitan senate and equally insulting response from the Serapian House of Commons."

"Words? They're going to fight a war over words?"

Vetinari sighed gently over the follies of mankind. "A very common causus belli I'm afraid."

"But words!"

"Commander, Ankh-Morpork once almost fought a war over an island that only temporarily existed."

That was true. Vimes rewound the conversation a few lines. "Mediator, sir?"

"I have suggested that the two cities send delegations to discuss their differences with my moderation."

"And if they don't feel moderate, sir?"

"Then the war will begin right here, Commander.

--

"The Mark wears the key around his neck at all times," Master Thief John Point said to Journeyman Elisie Meeram as the two of them strolled casual-like by the lake in Hide Park. "Never takes it off I hear, but in my experience a man'll take just about anything off for the right girl."

"I'm not a seamstress, sir," Elisie said stiffly.

"I'm not expecting you to act like one, just liaise with 'em. We need to introduce Mr. Porker to a new girl, a real dazzler, the kind that can get a man to do whatever she likes."

Elisie nodded her understanding. "I will consult with Mistress Palm, I'm sure she can suggest an appropriate young lady. What's the top price I can offer?"

"No top, just keep in mind the coffers have bottoms."

The Journeyman's eyes widened. "You have that kind of authorization, sir?"

"Let's just say somebody higher up is taking a personal interest in this crime."

--

NOTES:

1. Pseudopolis stands of the edge of the Octarine Grass Country in the farthest turnwise reaches of the Sto Plain. Serap is on the Smarl river just below the ingress of the Smarlet at the widdersin edge of the plain (don't bother to check the map, Serap is my invention).


	3. Chapter 3

Marie-Suzette came down the stairs in a glimmer of midnight blue and stars, golden hair falling like a foaming cataract of sunlight over one shoulder from beneath the soft drape of her hood, and came to a dead stop in the doorway.

She had expected the bar to be empty, the silence beneath the floorboards of her room had certainly suggested as much, but it was in fact crowded with humans and dwarfs, sitting together at the same table rather than separately as was the norm, with an occasional outcropping of troll. Red firelight and smoky yellow candlelight glinted on dented breastplates and copper bound helmets. Everybody seemed to be staring intently into the depths of their tankards when they weren't gulping down the contents in a determined quest for oblivion. Nobody so much as looked up at the rustle of her silk cloak. The cloud banks of cheap cigar smoke pounded the elusive rose and jasmine scent of her perfume into submission and sent it whimpering back to cling to her skirts.

Her bemused eye roamed over the room, settling at last on a very tall young man, very broad in the shoulders sitting alone at a table with a frosty glass of milk in front of him. Her breath caught. Propelled into motion she circled along the wall to the bar where the landlord stood, wiping glasses of course.

"Mr. Cheese?"

He jumped a little. "Yes, miss?"

"Who is that red haired man with the milk?"

Cheese didn't even bother to look. "Oh, that's Captain Carrot, miss."

"Carrot?" she echoed. "Ah, for the hair."

"No, miss, because he's shaped like a carrot." She stared blankly. "Long and lean and broad at the top," the barkeep clarified.

"Oh." It made a sort of sense. "No other name?"

"Well, formally he's Captain Ironfoundersson but everybody just calls 'im Carrot, miss. He's not one to stand on ceremony."

"No, he wouldn't be." She walked over to the table. "Captain Ironfoundersson?" Carrot looked up then stood politely, towering over her. A few nearby heads turned, and stayed that way. "May I join you?"

"Of course miss, er?"

"Marie-Suzette. Could I have an orangeade please, Mr. Cheese?"

"Yes, miss!" The innkeeper grabbed a potboy and whispered urgently.

Marie-Suzette turned back to Carrot. "I'm renting Mr. Cheese's first floor front room," she explained. "I seem to have chosen a good address. These gentlemen, I take it, are Ankh-Morpork's famous City Watch?"

"That's right, Miss Suzette." Carrot beamed around at the intent drinkers and got a few glimmers of returned smiles from those who happened to catch his eye. "Good lads every one of them."

"So they say wherever I go," Marie-Suzette agreed. I've heard tell of you Sammies as far away as NoThingfjord on the other side of the Hub. And the tales told of Samuel Vimes himself are almost beyond belief. Did he really arrest a dragon?"

Carrot flushed slightly. "Actually that was me, but only because I got to it first."

"And the Patrician of the city?"

"Lord Vetinari was innocent, but charges had been laid and Mister Vimes knows his duty."

Marie-Suzette nodded. "So they say. He can't be corrupted and won't be turned. He carries the law with him like a lamp and holds that not even kings are above it. He arrested the Seriph of Klatch too, if I'm not mistaken, and his army, and the army and high command of Ankh-Morpork as well."

"For disturbing the peace," said Carrot.

"He must be a remarkable man," said Marie-Suzette.

"The finest I know," Carrot said with a transparent and burning sincerity that would have made Vimes writhe in embarrassment had he been there to hear.

The orangeade arrived, the potboy having run all the way to and from the soda-shop on Pons Bridge. Marie-Suzette took a sip, then said in a voice carefully pitched for Carrot's ears alone: "Do you know, Captain Ironfoundersson, that you bear a striking resemblance to King Paragore the Valiant?"

The Captain's ingenuous face shut like a door: "Do I?"

Marie-Suzette sighed, "Oh, good. You know. I was afraid I was going to have to break the news to you."

The door wedged open and a hint of puzzlement peeked through. "How did you know?"

"The aura of course."

"The what?"

"Genuine royalty has an aura," Marie-Suzette explained. "Everybody feels it but only another royal can recognize it for what it is."

A light switched on in Carrot's head as a mystery, often worried at, was solved. "Ah. So that's why -?"

"Yes," she said.

Silence fell like soft snow. "I've wondered," Carrot said quietly. "Is it something all - er?"

"That all True Kings have?" she asked, rescuing him. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

His eyebrows rose for all the world like the Patrician's. "'True Kings'? There's another kind?"

"Lots of them," Marie-Suzette said matter-of-factly. "True Kings are descendants and heirs of the First King appointed by the gods as their vice-regent upon the Disc. But that was a very long time ago and lots of ersatz royalty has sprung up since."

"I see," Carrot said very quietly. "And they - we - have this aura that makes people look up to us and obey us?"

"Right."

"But it doesn't make us wise, or kind or just." It was not a question.

Marie-Suzette smiled, not her 'charming' smile but a wry twist of the lips. "Unfortunately not."

Carrot shook his head, "It doesn't seem right."

"No," she agreed.

There was another silence.

"Of course Real Royalty have fairy godmothers who give them things like justice and wisdom as christening presents," Marie-Suzette said at last. She grimaced: "Sometimes the gift giving gets out of hand. Take me; my mother comes from a family of Ramtops witches. I had eight fairy godmothers and they got all competitive and had to top each other." Marie-Suzette began enumerating on her fingers; "There was Good Temper from Aunt Ellin, Quick Wits from Aunt Genie, a Hero's Courage from Aunt Ruby, Perfect Health from Aunt Opal, Deep Wisdom from Aunt Crystal, a Dancer's Grace from Great-Aunt Zoey, Unfailing Charm from Grandma and Unfading Beauty from Great Grandma."

"Oh," said Carrot.

"You can say that again," Marie-Suzette sighed. "You were lucky, you had only one godmother."

He looked at her sharply. "What?"

"I was at your christening. " She smiled the wry smile again at his expression, "I'm older than I look. 'Unfading Beauty' remember? Your godmother gave you Conscience. Your mother and father were very pleased."

A burning curiosity and kind of distant pain pushed the door of Carrot's countenance all the way open. "You knew my parents, my human parents?"

"Only by sight I'm afraid, I was just a little girl. Lots of out of work royalty settles in Serap you know, good climate, good food, high culture and lots of social life. Prince Tyrill was a fine man, very interested in sports. He used to have encampments at his villa for youngsters from the Widdershin Bank . Your mother was a connection of mine, Donabelle de Baranca de Falli de Giorgos de Etaine de Ogygos de Fancia de Nordory, you get your red hair from her. She was the guiding star of just about every ladies' organization in the city as I recall."

"Why did they leave Serap?"

Marie-Suzette grimaced again. "That's one of the several downsides of being a True King, you have this mystical attachment to your native kingdom. Putting down fresh roots is not an option. Your parents used to visit Ankh-Morpork regularly, incognito of course."

"But -"

"I know," she sighed. "We have no idea what they were doing up near Lancre or why Tyrill had the royal sword with him. King Verence couldn't throw any light on the subject, nor could anybody else in the neighborhood."

More silence, deep and meditative.

"My father was Tyrill," Carrot said quietly, tucking the fact away in the backfiles of his mind. "My mother's name was Donabelle, what was mine?"

"Tyrill, after your father."

"Tyrill. " Carrot closed his eyes, when he opened them they were full of unshed tears. "Thank you."

"You're wel -"

"Who's this?" a voice interrupted. It was a growl with strong overtones of slavering jaws, burning eyes and imminent death. All watchmen within earshot hunched protectively into themselves, a few of the more cautious crawled under the tables, one or two made breaks for the door.

Marie-Suzette came to her feet directing her biggest, most radiant smile at the wolfish blonde suddenly looming over them. "This is your young lady then?" The fixed stare blinked.

"Er, yes." Even Carrot sensed a certain tension as customers and barkeeper braced themselves for the Bucket's first brawl. "This is Sergeant Angua von Uberwald, Angua this is -"

"Carrot's cousin Marie-Suzette." She extended a hand, still smiling with all her might.

After a moment Angua shook it. "Cousin?"

"Once removed," Marie-Suzette explained. "You see Carrot here's mother was my father's favorite cousin. When Daddy caught up with the bandits the one that lived said 'Baby? what baby?' so we knew he'd survived, and of course lost children are always found by kind and loving foster parents so we didn't worry too much, but naturally we'd have liked to know where he was." She sat down. Angua, as if mesmerized, sat down too. "So when I caught sight of a young man who looked enough like Cousin Donabelle to be her son I immediately thought 'Why not?', as one always does find lost relatives eventually, and here we are." The smile brightened by a few million candlepower.

Angua blinked some more and finally relaxed. Mr. Cheese resumed wiping glasses. Nervous patrons crept from under tables and picked up their drinks.

Marie-Suzette turned off the smile and looked at Carrot. "Daddy will be delighted you're found and doing so well. Perhaps you'd care to write? He and Mother would be happy to tell you all about your human parents."

"I'd like that," Carrot said quietly.

"Nice to meet you, Angua, I can see you're exactly the sort of girl Carrot needs, " she continued getting to her feet. "Now if you'll both excuse me - put the orangeade on my tab, please, Mr. Cheese." She walked past the bar and out the door into the rusty dimness of an Ankh-Morpork dusk.

Angua glared after her then turned it on Carrot. "What did she mean by that crack?"

"Crack?" he asked, puzzled.

"About me being the right girl for you."

Carrot looked at her innocently. "Well you are, aren't you?"

--

Dusk darkened into night. Candlelight streamed golden through un-curtained windows checkering the streets in the better parts of town. Carriage lamps twinkled on King's Way and Park Lane carrying their bejeweled occupants to the opera house or the Dysk on Gods' Island. And river mist twined through the black and sullen streets of the Shades populated by skittering, furtive figures. Through it all the constables of the City Watch patrolled two by two: Big looming watchmen and tiny spindly ones; short, iron helmeted ones and big rocky ones; beefy, deep voiced ones and curvy, long haired ones, each carrying in his or her or its soul that little spark of Vimesness that made them the Law rather than just another gang of armored toughs.


	4. Chapter 4

The distinguished Mr. Henry Porker of Pipesworth's Commercial Bank, the second biggest in Ankh-Morpork, knocked on the red varnished door shooting yet another nervous glance up and down the noisome and uninviting street. The Whore Pitts was always crowded in the early evening. Bedizened streetwalkers showed off their cheap finery by the light of the red lamps hung above the brothel doors and eyed the strolling men, shopping for a little negotiable affection. Other men, with collars up and hats pulled down low scurried along the cobbles, heading for a particular door. Mr. Porker belonged to that latter class, married men and important men who didn't want to be recognized.

The door opened and Porker stepped with relief into a brightly lit and richly furnished vestibule. A carpeted staircase with wrought iron balustrade curved upward and open archways led to further rooms sounding with laughter and the tinkle of glasses. A lugubrious butler closed the door and accepted Porker's coat and hat. "Good evening, sir."

"Good evening, Coster," the banker answered, now totally at his ease. "And where may I find Miss Lucie?"

"I'm afraid poor Lucie is indisposed tonight, Henry." Mrs. Palm sailed towards him like a splendid galley laden with jewels and exhaling rare perfumes. "She is devastated of course but we can't risk you catching something can we?"

"No indeed! Er -" Porker wondered if he should leave.

Mrs. Palm slipped her arm through his. "Come into the purple parlor, Henry, there's somebody I want you to meet."

Elisie Meeram sat in an alcove off Mrs. Palm's office peering through a dainty gilt lattice at a girl seated on a purple plush sofa. A pretty girl, yes, in her green and gold gown, but nothing special. Her coloring was spectacular with creamy skin, reddish hair and dark almond shaped eyes but her nose was prominent and bumpy and she had the beginnings of a double chin. Elisie had allowed herself to be guided by Mrs. Palm and now she was regretting it. Oh well, they could always try again. There was no particular hurry according to Mr. Point.

Mrs. Palm came in on the arm of a thickset man, Porker no doubt, he looked like a banker, and led him to the girl. She stood up and made him a curtsey, glancing archly up from under long, thick lashes. Porker stared, mouth falling slightly open. The girl smiled warmly and pulled him down to sit on the couch next to her. Mrs. Palm turned away, caught Elisie's eye and winked. It seemed she'd been dead right. Elisie shook her head. No accounting for men!

-----

Precious Jolson walked into the Bucket, Nicht riding on her shoulder. She wasn't much of a drinker, but somebody had to keep an eye on the pictsie or he'd incapacitate himself for a week. Besides she liked the Bucket. It was small and gloomy and usually damp, being so close to the river, but it was also warm with belonging. Precious could sit at the bar nursing her beer and everybody who walked past was somebody she knew. They'd give her a nod or stop for a word or two or just sit next to her and down a few in the kind of comfortable silence you could only find with them as were your own. Precious had been lonely all her life, but she'd never known it 'til she'd joined the Watch and suddenly become un-lonely.

She got a brimming tankard from Mr. Cheese and carefully tipped a few drops into Nicht's thimble sized cup before taking a small sip. She didn't really like beer but you couldn't just sit doing nothing. She glanced around to see who else was in tonight. Mr. Vimes was sitting at his corner table near the fireplace. He caught her eye and beckoned. Precious picked up Nicht, drink and all, and went over.

Vimes nodded at the chair opposite. "G' evening, Jolson, I hear you and Naethin had some excitement this afternoon?"

Precious put her partner down next to the peanut bowl and sat. "Yessir. It was downright strange, sir. You don't expect gentlemen to act that way."

"Furriners," Nicht said briefly before diving again into his cup.

The Commander lit one of his small cigars. "His lordship tells me Pseudopolis and Serap are squaring up for a war."

Precious blinked. "Sir? But they're on opposite sides of the plain!"

"Exactly what I said," Vimes agreed. "Seemingly they don't mean to let that stop them. And here's us, right in between, with plenty of both kinds visiting or living within the walls."

"Oh dear," Precious said, rather inadequately.

"And just to make it better his lordship is expecting more, come to try and sort out their differences under his eye."

"Freeze the marrow o' their bones he will. Yon's one frightening bigger," was Nicht's opinion.

"There's that," Vimes conceded. "But until he sorts them out we're going to have to keep them from killing each other - somehow."

"And we can't expect that lady to show up every time," said Precious.

Vimes took the cigar out of his mouth. "Lady? What lady's that?"

"The one who stopped the fight in Marbletown." No hint of comprehension lightened the Commander's face. "It's in our report, sir."

"Which I haven't seen, Constable. Give me the gist."

"Yessir." Precious ordered her thoughts. "We were watching the affray, sir, Nicht and me, trying to decide what to do -"

"Leave 'em to it says I," the pictsie interrupted. "Lotta useless furriners. Fill 'er up again, Presh."

She tipped a little more beer into the tiny cup. "Like Nicht says we couldn't quite decide whether it was our place to interfere or not, seeing as all parties were foreign nationals and in their own part of town to boot." Vimes nodded sympathetically. "Then this lady rides up and calls for them to stop and they did."

"Did they?"

"Yessir." Precious thought about it. "It was kind of like what Captain Carrot does, sir. You know how he talks and people do as he says? She scolded them like a nanny and sent them about their business toot sweet."

"Toot shweet," Nicht agreed, voice slightly slurred. "An eldritch lass that-a-one, shur. Not your regular bigger thash fer shure."

"A witch?" Vimes frowned.

"She didn't have a pointy hat, sir," Precious answered. "Lots of golden hair, and a white dress and pearls. And she was riding a unicorn, sir."

"A unicorn?" The frown became ferocious. "Gods dammit, not an elf! We don't need that kind of trouble on top of everything else."

"Sir?" It was Captain Carrot with Sergeant Angua beside him. "I think the Constable's talking about my cousin Marie-Suzette, sir."

"Your cousin?" Vimes echoed.

"On the human side, sir," Carrot explained. "I just met her tonight. She's got a room here at the Gleam."

Vimes' eyes narrowed as he looked up at the Captain. "Your cousin," he repeated flatly.

"Yes, sir." Carrot hesitated visibly then continued almost reluctantly. "She's a princess, sir."

"A princess," said Vimes, even more flatly. Precious and Angua both stared at Carrot, this was the closest he'd ever come to admitting what everybody knew.

"That probably explains how she broke up the fight, sir," Carrot said, face slightly flushed and unable, for once, to meet Vimes' eye.

"No doubt," said the Commander in his stoniest voice.

----

Marie-Suzette walked the narrow, twisty alleys of the Shades. The ominous, brooding silence was disturbed only by the scurry of furtive feet as the night crawling denizens got the hells out of her way. Stars glittered on her night colored cloak and the thing cupped in her hands radiated an uncanny light. Nobody wanted to mess with magic! Her eyes remained fixed on the eerily glowing device, her feet automatically avoiding puddles and dung.

Suddenly she was no longer alone. Invisible, fleeing feet pounded the cobbles as she looked up and to the right. "Looks like we finally got ahead of him."

A diamond clear, diamond edged voice came from the ambulating pillar of diaphanous veils. "Are you sure?"

Marie-Suzette nodded, showing the object in her hand. It seemed to be a bubble of glass enclosing a number of small crystals, some glowing, connected by thin void black wires. "This is one of my grandpa's brainwaves," she explained, "a magic tracker. Right now it's picking up nothing but the usual background magic. If He were present it'd be lighting up the whole street."

"You're very sure He's coming here," observed the elegantly gowned and bejeweled woman with the flagrantly false purplish black hair on Marie-Suzette's left.

"This is Ankh-Morpork. Everybody ends up here eventually."

"That's so." The woman - if she was a woman - pushed her rose colored spectacles down her long nose and gave the grimy buildings a oddly affectionate look. "My favorite city on the disc."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," Marie-Suzette said dryly, looked at the entity to her right. "What about you, Truth?"

"I find it less than salubrious," the veiled Archetype answered coolly. "But one of my favorites does live here."

"Oh?" Marie-Suzette's eyebrows soared heavenwards. "Oh, of course, Carrot."

"A fine, upright young man."

"The kind this city eats alive," said Truth's sister Lie. "Usually."

"He's her True King," Marie-Suzette answered. "Usual does not apply to him anymore than it does to me."

"I know." Lie looked over the Princess' head at her sister Truth. "One man can't change a whole city."

"He can when he's it's King," said Marie-Suzette.

"Oh dear. Am I going to have to find a new favorite city?" asked Lie.

"We'll see," said Truth.

There was a brief silence, then Marie-Suzette said, "I'd like to thank you both again for your help."

"Thanks are not necessary," said Truth. "Self interest demanded that we join you."

"We could have decidedly to be suicidally uninterested," Lie pointed out.

"That would have been foolish."

"Of course. What's your point?"

Marie-Suzette stepped metaphorically between the two opposites, being already literally between them. "I was being gracious, it's a Real Princess thing."

"Oh." Truth's veils stirred as her invisible head nodded. "I see, like 'courtesy'."

"That's right.


	5. Chapter 5

Vimes stepped into the hall. "Good morning, Sir Samuel," said the young person hanging upside down from the hammer-beam ceiling.

He broke into a grin. "Jocasta? All the way up to the dressing room door this time. I am impressed."

"Thank you, Sir Samuel." Vimes unhooked a cord and lowered her gently. She sat up, reaching down to slip the double loop of brown varnished rope off her ankles. "I thought I was watching my feet," she added ruefully.

"Still a dammed good try," Vimes said helping her up. "I see I'm going to have to upgrade my defenses. Again."

"Good morning, Sam. Hello, Jocasta," Lady Sybil greeted them calmly over the breakfast table. "Tea or coffee, my dear?"

"Coffee please. Thank you, m'lady," said the trainee assassin slipping into one of the extra chairs.

"Very dangerous young lady we've got here," Vimes said with a certain pride. "Made it all the way to the dressing room door."

"My goodness. Congratulations, Jocasta." Sybil handed her a cup.

"Not good enough though," the girl said ruefully.

"Age and cunning, Jocasta, age and cunning," Vimes answered cheerfully.

After the girl had finished her coffee and departed Lady Sybil gave her husband an admonishing look and shake of the head. "Really, Sam! You shouldn't encourage her."

He looked startled and a little guilty. "I'm not!"

"Complimenting her is not going to help the poor girl."

"Well, I was impressed," he said, a little defensively. "What should I do, ignore her?"

Sybil sighed. "No that won't help. She's got it bad, poor creature."

Vimes looked even more uncomfortable, possibly even blushed a little. "It's not my fault." A forlorn note entered his voice. "Is it?"

His wife smiled ruefully. "No, Sam. You can't help it if you're terribly attractive to dangerous women."

----

At about the same time, across the turgid waters of the Ankh, Marie-Suzette was knocking at a heavy oak door on a dusty back landing of the Unseen University. It opened and a long, leggy man with a scruffy beard that didn't suit him and big, anxious eyes looked out. He recognized Marie-Suzette, uttered a piercing scream and slammed the door in her face. Angry banging came from floor and ceiling and an irate voice behind the door opposite yelled, "Quiet out there!"

Marie-Suzette pursed her lips and knocked again.

"Go away!" shouted an agonized voice from within.

"Open this door, Rincewind!" she ordered.

"Won't!"

"You're being very silly."

"It's called self-preservation, Your Highness. No more adventures!"

Marie-Suzette sighed sympathetically. "I know how you feel, Rincewind, but -"

"No! No 'buts'." His voice rose hysterically. "Go! Away!"

"I'm trying to help."

A hollow laugh came from within.

Marie-Suzette shrugged. "All right, have it your own way. I thought you might like a warning but if not..."

The voice behind the door took on an apprehensive note. "Warning?"

"Something dangerous is coming. Very, very dangerous," said Marie-Suzette.

"It is?" Rincewind said uncertainly.

"Yes. And you are going to be right in the middle of it."

"No I won't!"

Marie-Suzette sighed. "Of course you will. You always are."

"Yes I am," Rincewind agreed resignedly. The door opened. "All right, come in and tell me about it." The door shut behind them.

A few moments later Rincewind's neighbor across the landing, Dr. Ebeneezer Ebonick D. thau. ., was shocked out of his peaceful after breakfast contemplation of infinity, by a despairing cry of "OH GODS!"

-----

It was a busy morning in Ankh-Morpork. A short ways rimward of Unseen University Mr. John Point was conducting a planning session in a cozy den of thieves down the hall from the kitchen.

Elisie Meeram placed a large, bright brass key on the table in front of him with a triumphant grin. "Worked like a charm, sir. Little Cat not only talked our Mr. Porker into taking off his key but kept him far too busy to notice when I lifted it to make the impression."

"Excellent," said Mr. Point. "One down. I'm afraid the others are going to be a bit more difficult."

The four other people present perked up interestedly. These consisted of Mr. Melville Ishmale, Master Burglar and his team of housebreakers: Terry-the-Eel, a long, stringy, double jointed youth whose job it was to wriggle his way in by any improbable opening; Miss Banty Joe the look out, and 'Cosher' Berk who supplied muscle when and where necessary and drove the getaway gig.

"Oh?" said Mr. Ishmale after a long moment when Point showed no signs of going on.

"Eh?" Point stirred out of his momentary abstraction. "Oh, yes. One pair are kept in the safe of the King's Way Watch House -"

"What's that you say!"

"Bugger that!"

"Oooh er!"

"Are you quite insane, sir?"

Point raised his voice above the cacophony. "It's a house isn't it? You are housebreakers are you not? The best in the Guild or so I'm told!"

Silence fell like wet cement, thick and goopy.

"We are, as you say, housebreakers, Mr. Point," Ishmale said carefully after a long moment. "However I am sure you will agree that a Watch House poses certain unique difficulties."

"Of course," Point answered, all sweet reason. "I quite understand this job will take considerable ingenuity and a good bit of planning. There's no hurry. We can take our time." He opened a file and passed around sheets of paper. "Here's a floor-plan and a copy of the daily roster. I have a few ideas, tell me what you think, Mr. Ishmale -"

----

Sam Vimes, emerged from his usual weekly meeting with the Patrician blissfully unaware of the plots being laid a short distance away - which was undoubtedly beneficial to his blood pressure and to Mr. Point and company's prospects of continued health as well.

Normally Lower Broadway was one of the busiest streets in Ankh-Morpork during the post-noon hours, full of people wending their way to the matinee shows at the Dysk and the Bear Pits or to the SoSo shops, but now it showed itself to Vimes' unbelieving eyes as bare and untenanted as the main drag of the legendary City of Ee.

Thumbs pricking like mad he turned a slow circle. Filigree Street and Alchemist showed empty too but there were carts and carriages on Turnwise Broadway which, upon investigation, proved to be empty.

Vimes gripped the hilt of his sword, a cold sweat breaking out on palms and the back of his neck. Godsdammit if those Wizards had been messing with reality again... He pushed on into the Maul and there, at last, were the people packed tight as herrings in a tin, all looking towards the Plaza of the Moons.

Vimes wriggled his way into the press, shoving and treading on toes. Nobody so much as looked his way. There seemed no end to the crowd. They filled the Maul and the Plaza, Vimes could have walked on the heads. He hadn't seen a mob like this since Sybil's near sacrifice to the Dragon eight years ago.

He passed C.M.O.T. Dibbler, leaning on his barrow, mouth sagging slightly open. Okay, this was bad. If Throat wasn't crying his goods to such a mass of potential customers something was very, very wrong. It was then, as Vimes paused for breath, that the sound that had been knocking at his ear drums all this time finally got a notice.

Music, sweet, piercing, enchanting, tried to worm its way into mind and muscle turning both to happy goo. Vimes sagged, eyes glazing, but only for an instant. In the next breath the portcullises of his brain had slammed shut and a million tiny warriors surged along his nerve endings armed for battle. The music was no match for Sam Vimes. It cringed away as he pushed and shoved towards its source.

A slender woman, all in white, was sitting at the foot of Horry's column (1) singing to the plangent notes of a lute, a tumble of golden hair hiding her face. Vimes brought the flat of his sword down hard snapping the instrument's neck. Strings broke and the music ended in a discordant jangle. The woman stared up at him with astonished violet eyes and then something hit him broadside and sent him sprawling.

"Fafnir, no!" cried Marie-Suzette.

The little dragon swallowed the flame it had been about to spit and turned to look at her. 'You sure?'

"Very."

Vimes stared dazedly into the fierce, reptilian face inches from his own and froze. He was, after all, married to a dragon breeder.

Around them the crowd blinked, checked watches or the sun, muttered to each other about the time and dispersed to their business.

"Get off him, Fafnir," Marie-Suzette ordered. Then to Vimes, stating the obvious with some indignation: "You broke my lute!"

"Damn right," he said, sitting up with a wary eye still fixed on the dragon. "You are under arrest, young lady."

Marie-Suzette drew herself up. "For what?"

"Assault on an officer of the law for starters," Vimes answered. "Illegal use of magic. Creating a public nuisance and any else I can come up with!"

----

Vimes marched Marie-Suzette into Pseudopolis Yard. They'd lost the dragon somewhere along the way but picked up several cats who wound, meowing, round their feet as they entered the main office. Ignoring the duty officer, Sergeant Pessimal, Vimes pushed the woman into a chair in front of an empty desk and sat himself down behind it, picking up a pencil and an arrest sheet.

"Name?"

"Dragomira Margotta Saraphine Krystina Roxanne Tactitia Marie-Suzette tePace-Triste de Apel de Serap de Esex-Burco-Sexfield de Palma-Pachek-Brag Le Dragula," she answered demurely.

Vimes' pencil remained suspended as he fixed her with his most forbidding glare. "Again."

Marie-Suzette met the steely Vimes eye for a long moment, then dropped hers meekly. "I usually go by Marie-Suzette, sir."

"Better." He wrote it down. "Address?"

"The Bucket, Gleam Street," she answered, quite subdued. "I'm renting Mr. Cheese's upstairs room."

"So I hear," he said, writing. "Came looking for your cousin did you?"

"No," she said startled. "No, not at all. I had no idea Tyrill - I mean Carrot - was in Ankh-Morpork. Please, sir, I'm very sorry about Fafnir but it did look as though you were attacking me. Why did you break my lute?"

Vimes stared at her incredulously. "Because you were enchanting half the population of the damn city that's why!"

"I wasn't! I always collect a crowd when I sing. It's not magic, it's ...it's..."

"Charisma?" he suggested flatly.

Marie-Suzette looked uncomfortable. "I guess you could call it that." Something told her that vouchsafing any further explanation of the fringe benefits of being a Real Princess would be a grave mistake. She was beginning to suspect just who this battered old copper was. "Um, sir, would you be His Grace the Duke of Ankh-Morpork?"

"That's right," Vimes said forbiddingly.

Oh great. She'd just managed to offend the second most powerful man in the City - and the one whose notice she'd most particularly wanted to avoid. "I'm very sorry, Your Grace," she said in her meekest voice. "I earn my living as an itinerate musician. I've never gotten into any trouble over it before."

"Ankh-Morpork is a little different from other cities." Vimes seemed to unbend a little. "The Musicians' guild takes a very dim view of non-member performers. I suggest you find other work while you're here."

"Yes, Your Grace," said Marie-Suzette, continuing and improving upon her imitation of a doormat. It must have had some effect, Vimes put down the pencil.

"Seeing you're new in town I'll let you off this once. But another disturbance like today and you'll be seeing the inside the Tanty, my girl!"

"Yes, Your Grace. I mean no, Your Grace." Marie-Suzette paused a moment to sort out her tenses. "I mean you'll have no more trouble from me, Your Grace." I hope, she added fervently to herself.

---

1. Admiral Nels Horry had rated a prominent monument from his grateful country by gallantly loosing his entire fleet to the Serapian navy in the famous sea battle of Chirm Roads. A fortunate storm was all that had prevented the enemy from continuing on to sack the city. But at least Horry had tried. And he'd lost tens of thousands of men doing it which made him a hero by Ankh-Morporkian standards.


	6. Chapter 6

Marie-Suzette was met outside Pseudopolis Yard by two of her cats, the white and one of the blacks. They meowed urgently at her and she frowned.

"Doesn't sound like anybody I know. All right, I'll come."

Mr. Cheese met her at the door of the Gleam, he looked nervous. "If I was you, miss, I'd go up the outside stair."

Marie-Suzette blinked violet eyes at him. "I was told a lady is waiting to see me."

"That's why," answered Mr. Cheese. Shooting a wary look over his shoulder he leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "It's the Press, miss."

"What?" Marie-Suzette asked blankly, wondering how long Mr. Cheese had been using tuberose breath mints.

"The lady from the Times, miss. And a nasty, prying little piece she is."

The Times? "Oh of course," Marie-Suzette said aloud. "Ankh-Morpork's famous newspaper. Oh dear." Publicity was the last thing she wanted.

"Yes, miss," said Mr. Cheese with considerable feeling.

Marie-Suzette bit her lip and considered. "Well, thank you for the warning, Mr. Cheese," she said at last. "But I think I'd better see her. From what I hear if you don't answer the Times' questions they make up answers for you."

"Gods know that's true," the innkeeper agreed gloomily. "Well, if you think it's best, miss."

"I don't," Marie-Suzette said honestly. "But sometimes one must settle for not-so-bad."

The lady from the Times proved to be an attractive blond whose severely cut navy suit. with discrete touches of lace, did nothing to conceal a very feminine figure. She gave her victim a sweetly guileless smile right out Marie-Suzette's own bag of tricks. "Your Highness? I'm Sacharissa Crisplock -"

"Of that well known newspaper the Ankh-Morpork Times," Marie-Suzette finished for her with a smile that said 'Don't try charming ME, sweetheart, I wrote the book! And your startling attributes have no effect whatsoever here'.

Sacharissa's answering smile said, clearly as words, 'Can't blame a girl for trying'.

The two women sat facing each other over Commander Vimes' corner table, girded for battle behind sweetly polite masks. The entire conversation was conducted in dulcet tones, a gentle duet with a silent undercurrent of snarling cat.

Sacharissa opened her notebook and launched her attack. "May I ask what brings your Highness to Ankh-Morpork?"

"Doesn't everybody come to Ankh-Morpork sooner or later?" Marie-Suzette parried.

"You've never visited our fair city on the Ankh before?" Sacharissa's smile didn't flicker but her eyes were trying to drill holes in Marie-Suzette's tranquil front and her voice expressed polite disbelief.

"Not since I was a little girl with my father," Marie-Suzette answered. "As you probably know I've led a fairly adventurous life with a good deal of travel. I haven't visited the plains for a decade or more I believe."

Sacharissa consulted rather than wrote in her notebook. "Ah, yes. I see you were kidnapped by Cohen the Barbarian?"

"A dear man, and perfect gentleman in his way," Marie-Suzette confirmed affectionately. "He had had no idea I was only twelve years old and returned me to my father with his deepest apologies."

"And your famous courtship a few years later," Sacharissa said leadingly.

"Yes." Marie-Suzette said regretfully. "That did get a bit out of hand didn't it? Men can be so competitive! Fifteen is really much to young for marriage, don't you agree?" (1)

"But not too young to embark on a notable heroic career," said Sacharissa.

Marie-Suzette laughed. "Oh my, no. I lived with my aunt and uncle in Skund forest for two or three years before striking out on my own."

Sacharissa started writing again. "That would be Prince Andre the Beast of Skund and the Princess Patrise le Dragula?" (2)

"That's right. A fine and private place Skund forest. A good place to find some peace and quiet."

"Weren't you kidnapped by Elves?"

"A piece of bad luck."

"Very bad," Sacharissa agreed dryly. "For them."

Marie-Suzette just smiled entrancingly, but with an edge that said, 'No more than they deserved for messing with ME.'

Sacharissa turned a page in her notebook and licked the tip of her pencil. "Now, to get back to your reasons for visiting Ankh-Morpork -?"

"A desire to see the city and a few friends who've settled here," Marie-Suzette said promptly.

Sacharissa's smile said, 'Gotcha!'. "Really, your Highness, given the current state of feeling between Pseudopolis and Serap and Lord Vetinari's proposed conference it is very hard to believe that the daughter of the King of Serap -"

"Excuse me," Marie-Suzette interrupted, quite sharply. "My father is not King of Serap, he is the ex-King."

Sacharissa blinked and for the first time allowed some uncertainty to show. "I beg your pardon?"

"We Dragulas have the honor of being citizens of the Serene Republic but we do not rule or reign over it these days," Marie-Suzette explained.

Sacharissa looked confused - as well she might. "But didn't your father command the army of Serap in the last war with Istanzia?"

"He was given the command by the Republic," Marie-Suzette admitted. "As I said we are citizens, and in quite good standing I am happy to say." She took pity on Sacharissa's evident bewilderment:

"Serap has been a Republic for over two hundred years, ever since Drago XVI ceded his powers to the House of Commons in 1792 as has each of his successors in turn, which makes Father an ex-King rather than a King. You see?"

Sacharissa's expression strongly implied that she didn't. Marie-Suzette tried to clarify: "It was all quite amicable, very unlike your own unhappy experience with Lorenzo the Kind. Not a drop of blood shed, and my family was permitted to keep its private estates - though I admit discussions of exactly what was private and what public did grow a tad heated." She smiled brilliantly. "But in the end all was settled to everybody's satisfaction."

"How remarkable," said Sacharissa, and meant it. Recovering herself she turned firmly back to the question at hand. "So, your Highness is saying that your presence in Ankh-Morpork has nothing to do with the Patrician's conference?"

"Nothing at all," Marie-Suzette answered emphatically.

------

So that was Carrot's cousin was it? Vimes chewed over their interview as he sat hunched at a desk full of defenseless paperwork. If he was any judge at all - and after all these years of coppering he'd better be! - the girl was telling the truth about not expecting to find Carrot in Ankh-Morpork. But according to those same well honed instincts she was hiding her real purpose for coming. It had been three hundred years, plenty of time for Lorenzo's son to sire a huge number of descendants. This girl could be a rival heir. Being a woman didn't disqualify her, there'd been plenty of reigning queens.

Vimes frowned savagely. The reports, manifests and schedules cowered, letters shivered in their inky boots. He knew how sentimental this cynical, mercenary city of his could be. A beautiful young queen with 'krisma' might get a lot of support from the mob, and certainly would from Vetinari's numerous high born enemies.

The commander cracked a smile frightening the paperwork even more, it almost whimpered. The damnfools would expect to wind that sweet young thing round their little fingers. They'd try to marry her to somebody's idiot heir and pull her strings. Vimes didn't know which was worse; the dim possibility they'd succeed or his private conviction that they'd fail.

"No more Kings," he muttered. "And that includes Queens!"

-----

Marie-Suzette mounted the stairs to her room, hoping that her unpleasant encounters were over for the day. She should have known better.

A woman was sitting on her bed, or what looked like a woman. She was draped in dark robes and a fluff of white thistledown hair caught the light as she turned her head.

Marie-Suzette came to a full stop in the doorway and glared. "Go. Away!"

The woman simply sighed and blinked large, shiny eyes, like two mirrors peering out of the cavernous depths of their sockets. "Why must you be so difficult?"

Marie-Suzette slammed the door shut with a force that shook the rickety building. "Why must you meddle in my life?"

The woman with the eyes bridled. "Your life, my dear Dragomira, is as much my affair as it is yours. I am Destiny!"

"I am not interested in a destiny, Destiny. How many times must I say it?"

"At least once more," the Anthropomorphic personification aka goddess of Destiny retorted, then continued coaxingly. "Tyrill de Ankh is a very handsome young man, don't you think? All he needs is the right woman to push him into claiming his rightful throne."

"If you think that then you know nothing at all about it." Marie-Suzette answered snippily, burrowing in her bottomless saddle-bags. "Besides he's already found himself a woman, thank you very much. I met her this afternoon, very suitable."

"Not as suitable as you," Destiny said wistfully. "True King and Real Princess, a perfect match." (3)

"No thank you." Marie-Suzette pulled out a soft, beautiful white feathered cloak and threw it at the bed, narrowly missing Destiny.

"Tyrill must be persuaded to claim his rightful throne. He's slunk about incognito quite long enough," Destiny complained.

"Tyrill isn't interested in his 'rightful throne' and I don't blame him. Ankh-Morpork is pretty near the top on my list of places I don't want to be queen of." Marie-Suzette pulled an anatomically faithful and extremely female breast-plate out of her bag, followed by some tubes of matching mail and bits of leather harness.

Destiny looked at the armor in some surprise. "Your opponent in this quest has not yet arrived." (4)

"I know that," Marie-Suzette answered, bundling breastplate, mail and harness into the swan feather cloak. "Nor do I mean to wear this lot when he does. What I am going to do with it is none of your business. Why don't you go arrange the life of some other princess? I'm sure there must be plenty just panting for your attentions." She headed for the door.

Destiny sighed. "Your family have always been difficult - the trouble I had settling your aunts not to mention your father and grandfather! - but you are without a doubt the very worst of them all." (5)

"Thank you!" said Marie-Suzette and slammed the door thunderously behind her

----

1. The fame of Marie-Suzette's beauty had gotten around, prompting Cohen to kidnap her. That notoriety led in turn to suitors from as far afield as Muntab and Ecalpon applying for her hand in marriage. The contest grew a bit intense, complicating Serap's foreign policy and Marie-Suzette decided to decamp taking shelter with relatives in a place where no sane suitor would follow - though a few of the less sane ones did.

2. Prince Andre, of the now non-existent kingdom of Sto-Carrock (long since overgrown by Skund forest) was cursed by an irate wizard to remain in a hideous beastly form until a beautiful princess agreed to marry him, as Princess Patrise of Serap did some two thousand years later. However after all that time Andre's morphic field had adjusted to the beast shape making it very difficult for him to hold onto his nearly forgotten princely form. Fortunately Patrise doesn't mind a bit having fallen in love with a Beast and the magical master of Skund forest not yet another dull enchanted prince.

3. Destiny is, inevitably, an inveterate matchmaker.

4. She's also very big on arranging quests. She rarely has trouble with Marie-Suzette on that account. It is Destiny's determination to see her appropriately settled with a royal husband and a kingdom that annoys the princess.

5. The eldest of Marie-Suzette's aunts, Princess Pernelle, ran away from home to avoid a political marriage with the heir to the Grand Duchy of Chirm. Those familiar with the workings of Destiny (ie: Narrative Causality) will be unsurprised to learn that the Ducal heir was equally reluctant or that they ended up working as a goose girl and woodcutter on the very same estate with the inevitable result that they fell in love.

Princess Patrise's marriage to the Beast of Skund has already been mentioned. Their youngest sister, Princess Sidonie, had an unusually large pet frog which, after advising her through several adventures, inevitably turned out to be the enchanted King of Smarle.

Marie-Suzette's father, grandfather and great grandfather all firmly refused to marry any of the available princesses forcing Destiny to work hard to turn up appropriately beautiful and talented commoners and throw them in the royal path in such a way as to make marriage inevitable.

ex-King Feodor's wife is, as we know, a Ramtops witch from a long line of witches. Fridrich III and his two brothers married the three beautiful daughters of a humble villager as the result of some unwise joking on the young ladies' part and ex-King Drago XXI's determination to get his sons to settle down. ex-Queen Belle-Venezia, mother of the difficult princes, was an innkeeper's daughter who'd caught her husband's eye while he was upon errantry.

It is probable that all this exogamy has contributed to keeping the Dragula line sane, intelligent and notably able.


	7. Chapter 7

"I know what we can do about our Jocasta," Lady Sybil said from her comfortably squashy fireside chair in the Pleasantly Chintz Parlor.

"Yes, dear?" Sam Vimes answered absently, on husbandly automatic, as he picked little Sam's lead soldiers out of the rug. A heartbeat later the words registered and Sybil had his full and undivided attention. "What?"

"It's obvious," she said, biting off her thread and addressing herself to the other knee of her son's breeches. "Find her a young man."

Vimes sat back on his haunches and stared at his wife in disbelief. "Just like that?"

"Not 'just like that' of course. It will probably take more than one try."

"And where are we going to find a 'suitable young man' for a lady assassin in training?" Vimes demanded. "Look, Sybil, Jocasta's pretty enough to get any boy she wants - trouble is she's not looking."

"Exactly. That's why she needs our help," Sybil said calmly. "Don't look at me like that, Sam, you've got an entire watch full of possibles!"

"Sybil, I can't call a watchman to my office and say 'date this girl'!"

Her ladyship all but rolled her eyes. "Don't be deliberately dense, Sam. We'll have to be rather more subtle than that."

"I'm not good at subtle, Sybil."

She bestowed an affectionate smile on her husband. "I know, dear, you are most loveably direct. But wouldn't all the unrest in the city be a good excuse to set a guard on the house?"

"I don't need -" Vimes broke off, the purple faded from his cheeks as realization set in. "Oh. I see."

"Any young man capable of catching Jocasta in the act will definitely get her interest, don't you think?"

"He'll have to be good, she certainly is," Vimes said pensively.

"Think about it, dear. I'm sure you have at least one or two young men up to her level."

"Maybe...maybe...." he sank into a brown study. (1)

The door opened and Wilikins announced; "Captain Carrot, sir, my lady."

Vimes scrambled to his feet. "What is it, Carrot?"

"I wouldn't have bothered you, sir, but you did ask to be informed of any disturbances in the city -" he began apologetically.

"I know I did. Spit it out, Carrot!"

"There's a brawl at the Mended Drum -" the captain tried to continue.

Vimes interrupted a second time, shaking his head. "I thought we'd licked that damned literalism of yours, you've been doing so well. I meant unusual disturbances, Carrot."

"Sir," the captain said, even more apologetically. "Sir, it's only nine-thirty. The choreographed brawls don't start till after eleven, because of the before dinner-drinks custom."

Vimes frowned, hesitating. He owed Sybil a full evening at home.

"Sir, it's already spread into Short Street."

"Oh gods!" he shot a sheepish look over his shoulder at his wife. "Sorry, Sybil."

"That's all right, dear," she said comfortably, exchanging little Sam's breeches for one of big Sam's socks. "Go knock some heads together, it'll make you feel better. And keep your eye open for possibilities."

Huh? Oh, right. Sybil meant watch out for a young man for Jocasta. What a pity Carrot was taken! Wasn't a healthy young woman anywhere who wouldn't be interested in Carrot. (2)

-----

Filigree street, the upper end of Short Street and adjoining lanes were packed solid with Morporkians engaged in the national sport of looking on. The spectacle was more than worthy of their attention. It was a brawl not easily to be matched even in the thousand year annals of the Drum.

Shadows could be seen grappling on every floor through the open windows, and several new holes in the thin lath and plaster walls. Light from the inn illuminated the brisk donnybrook that had overflowed its walls and spread to the cross-street in front.

Constable Nicht Nought Naethin left his partner's shoulder with an ear-splitting pictsie battle cry, streaking like a redheaded and highly vocal arrow into the beer gut of a fat be-whiskered fellow waving a broken chair in one hand and an upside-down mace in the other. The impact sent them both flying.

Precious Johnson hit a scantily clad, slightly dazed looking Barbarian Hero with her truncheon to get his attention. "You! City Watch! Drop that sword!"

If he'd had the brains to comply he wouldn't have been a hero. He raised his sword. Precious blocked his down-stroke with her truncheon and rammed her free fist hard into a very indelicate place. That took care of the hero. Another overexcited ex-customer of the Drum was unwise enough to grab Precious by the throat from behind. She bent and twisted slamming her assailant twice hard against a wall till he slid off into a crumpled, groaning heap.

"Nicht?" Precious swept the area for her partner. She saw the whiskered fat man lying on the cobbles, contorted in agony, mouth open in a silent scream. Another man was rocking and screaming quite noisily as he clutched his bloody kneecaps and a third lay face down in the gutter with the pictsie poised proudly on his head. "Nicht! Remember what Sergeant Angua said about undue force!"

"Ach an she's a fine one to talk!" Precious held out her hand and he jumped into it. "You lasses'r all alike you are, big or small. Every one of you set on taking the fun out 'a life."

"You want to go up in front of Vetinari?" Precious demanded. That silenced him! She put Nicht back on her shoulder and looked around. The only people left standing were wearing breastplates and copper bound helmets. Roars of defiance and screams of agony continued to pour out of the Drum. There even seemed to be people fighting on the roof.

Sergeant Detritus approached like an earthquake, swinging a Troll club. The other watchmen formed up behind him. "Do we go in Sarge?" Precious asked.

"Dat's where the riot is."

----

'Back again,' Marie-Suzette thought ruefully as the cell door slammed behind her. Oh well, with so many prisoners surely there was at least a fighting chance she'd avoid Duke Vimes' notice. Though considering the way her luck had been running lately....

She looked around the small, crowded space full of familiar, if somewhat cut and swollen faces. "Hello, Herrena, my what a gorgeous dress that must have been!"

The handsome, red haired woman in the remains of a cutting edge fashion statement in leather and silk smiled appreciatively but was unable to speak due to a reset jaw.

"Sweet Ephebe, Six-Fingers, did a wall fall on you?" Marie-Suzette continued cheerfully to a massive, hairy hulk missing the index and rude fingers of each hand..

The cut mouth in the black and blue face started bleeding again, as its owner grinned in answer. "You should see the other fellows, Dragon!" (3)

"As long as you gave as good as you got," she agreed. "Here, Weasel, move over." The little swordsman scooted obligingly closer to his massive partner, Bravd the Hublander, on the shelf bed and Marie-Suzette settled herself beside him. "My, that was fun!"

Mumbles of agreement showed that the sentiment was generally shared despite physical damages.

"Just like the old days," Bravd said, a little wistfully.

"Were those Golems stamping out the flames?" Marie-Suzette asked interestedly.

"Yup. Regular fire brigade they are," said Six-Fingers.

"So, no more big fires to loot, eh, Weasel?"

"More's the pity," the little anti-hero said sadly.

"Poor, Hibiscus," a willowy, black skinned heroine clad in small bits of coppery plate, commented from her corner. "He probably will sell out now."

"Let 'im!" Six-fingers said emphatically. "He's ruining the place with his fancy notions!"

"Like a floor show?" Marie-Suzette asked archly.

"Oh, that's okay. Gives you a target don't it?" Six-Fingers conceded. "But what about those drinks with the funny names? Next thing you know he'll be wanting to but down carpeting instead of straw!"

"And did you notice those little tables in booths instead of proper trestle boards?" chimed in an aging hero whose multiple scars were fully displayed by his scanty attire.

"What's he want to go changing things for?" a paunchy, bewhiskered NoThingfjorder in a bearskin complained.

"He certainly doesn't seem to be considering the desires of his client base," Marie-Suzette observed.

"Right. He wants to run one of them there nightclubs let 'im sell out and start it somewhere else!" Six-Fingers declared to popular applause.

Marie-Suzette's wandering eye settled on an unusually young, nearly naked Barbarian Hero sitting chin to knees against the bars staring dreamily into space. "What's with the kid?"

"No idea." Six-Fingers, nudged him with a toe. "Hey! you okay, youngster?"

The kid's eyes focused briefly and he managed to utter the words, "So beautiful!" before lapsing again into happy dreams.

Six-Fingers shrugged. "Ah, met a lass, that explains it."

"I knows the feeling," said Bravd sympathetically.

"Won't be good for nothing till he beds her," his partner agreed. "Kids!"

"You have no romance in your dried up excuse for a soul, Weasel," Marie-Suzette told him.

"Should hope not!" was the answer. "No profit in it, none at all."

Bravd grinned salaciously. "Don't know about that!"

"None you can spend in a pub anyway," said his partner to a burst of friendly and ribald laughter.

----

The cell door creaked open (4) some hours later to a chorus of grumbling from dozing heroes. "Marie-Suzette!" called the turnkey, nudging the lovelorn young hero out of the way with his foot.

Her heart sank. Clearly she had not avoided notice. "Tanty, here I come," he muttered to herself, stepping over sprawled legs and into the corridor.

----

1. In fact the Ramkin mansion does have a Brown Study, right next to the Long Library. Olaf Quimby II would approve.

2. Not to mention the healthy young men who are regulars at the Blue Cat - which Carrot really wishes you wouldn't.

3. Marie-Suzette's heroic nickname has nothing to do with Fafnir but derives a) from her given name 'Dragomira' and her reputation as a ferocious fighter.

4. Igor sees to it that the appropriate doors creak however oiled their hinges.


	8. Chapter 8

His Grace the Duke of Ankh-Morpork bared his teeth in what could be called a smile only by the most blindly optimistic - which at this moment did not include Marie-Suzette. "We meet again," he said faux-pleasantly.

"Yes, your Grace," she replied resuming her doormat manner.

Vimes sat behind a paper piled desk flanked by two visions in brightly shining armor; tall Carrot and extremely short Sergeant Pessimal. Angua lurked in a corner. "I hear you started the fight," the Duke continued.

"I did not!" Marie-Suzette snapped indignantly, quite forgetting to be meek.

Vimes ignored her. "And it seems I should have warned you that lascivious dancing is cornered by a guild here too."

"Lascivious!" Marie-Suzette sputtered. She took a deep breath and got herself back in hand. "Your Grace, my performance consisted of classical pieces from Goose Lake and the Spice Drawer Suite."

"In an extremely scanty costume by all accounts," Vimes countered.

"Oh, well -" Marie-Suzette opened her swan feather cloak.

Vimes bit his cigar butt in half. Carrot's face turned redder than his hair as he hastily looked away. A.E. blinked rapidly and his throat worked.

The aptly named 'breast plate' was anatomically correct in every detail so much so that it looked, at first gulp, like Marie-Suzette's bare torso had been silver plated. A miniscule leather kilt fringed the bottom and garters held up mail stockings, matching the mittens sheathing her arms from hand to the shoulder.

Marie-Suzette glanced apologetically at a glassy eyed Angua. "It's solid silver, sorry."

The werewolf recovered enough for speech. "It's not that, it's just I've never seen a breastplate with cleavage before."

"Neither had I," Marie-Suzette agreed dryly. "Smitheus is a dirty old god." (1)

Vimes, mature married man that he was, was the first to recover. "I wouldn't expect silver to turn a blade, god-made or not," he observed patting out the smoldering paperwork and putting the dog end back in his mouth.

Marie-Suzette shrugged. "I've never found out if it does or not. Any warrior who comes at me when I'm wearing this drops his jaw and then his weapons - well, most of his weapons."

A broad, unladylike grin spread itself across Angua's face as Carrot blushed even harder. So did A.E. Pessimal but Vimes gave a brief bark of what might have been laughter

Marie-Suzette was encouraged. "Even Amazons glaze over for a minute or two," she continued. "That's why I wore it, I thought it would keep missiles to a minimum. Besides it's easy to dance in."

"And I what I would call an open incitement to riot, Miss Suzette," Vimes retorted. But his mood had definitely mellowed.

"Pooh!" she answered with considerable energy. "Heroes are too used to displays of female pulchritude to make fools of themselves that way. It must have been one of your civilized city men."

Vimes glanced at a slightly singed paper. "One Mister Artus D'Artagan of Serap, as it happens. Seems he was offended by some of the things being shouted at you."

Marie-Suzette blew out a sigh. "I knew it! I am perfectly capable of defending my own honor, your Grace, if need be. And I don't see how I'm to blame for the misguided gallantry of some chivalrous idiot!"

Maybe she was fooling herself but it seemed to Marie-Suzette that the grim and suspicious Duke Vimes was beginning to soften towards her. Clearly her usual kind of charm was a mistake here. His Grace preferred attitude, maybe he felt it was more honest?

"I kind of agree with you there," he was saying. "What I don't get is why you didn't stop the brawl once it started, I hear you're good at that."

Marie-Suzette stared at him. "Sir? It was the Drum, sir."

This time Vimes really did laugh. He leaned back in his chair, pulled out and lit a new cigar and blew a smoke ring. Marie-Suzette noticed that his three officers were watching his Grace every bit as intently as she was.

There was quite a little cloud around his head before he finally spoke. "You've got yourself a point there too, young lady." He blew another smoke ring. "What are we going to do with you? I can't have a royal princess running round my city making trouble for the Watch now can I? Even if she is our Carrot's cousin."

The wiry body in the battered armor remained deceptively relaxed but suddenly the eyes were boring into Marie-Suzette like a pair of Device powered dwarf drills. She felt a dew of sweat on her brow. Carrot and Angua and A.E. were all holding their breaths.

Then the words 'royal princess' and 'Carrot's cousin' fell into place and went a long way towards explaining Duke Vimes' unfriendliness. "I'm not a princess of Ankh your Grace!" she blurted.

"No?"

No, sir. I'm a Dragula of Serap."

The steely glare flickered as Vimes blinked. "A what of where?"

"A Dragula, your Grace, one of the former royal house of Serap. Ex-King Feodor VII is my father."

The front legs of Vimes' chair came down of the floor. "Ex-King?"

"Yes, sir. It's a long story."

"Ex-King," he repeated thoughtfully. "So, you've got no designs on our golden throne have you?"

"Great Ephebe, no!" she said with some vehemence.

He leaned forward over the desk, it was all Marie-Suzette could do not to take a defensive step back. "Then why exactly are you here?"

Oh gods! She nervously twisted the edges of her feather cape. This was not a man to be put off with clever come-backs - and most emphatically not one to be lied to! - which left only one alternative.

Marie-Suzette sighed, surrendering to circumstances beyond her control, "That's another long story, your Grace."

"I got nothing but time, miss," he answered. "Get the lady a chair, A.E.." He glanced sideways at his aid's still lambent face. "Oh, and would you mind?" he made wrapping motions with his hand.

Marie-Suzette obediently folded herself back into her cloak to Carrot and the sergeant's visible relief. Angua snickered softly.

Marie-Suzette settled into the straight-backed wooden chair. "It's hard to know where to begin..."

----

It was the proverbial dark hour before the dawn. The hulk of the Drum still smoldered, the area before it lit by bonfires showing milling crowds, cheerfully discussing the night's events. Most of the Thieves had long since left their vantage point on the roof of the Guildhouse to return to their beds or their plots but three dark figures lingered near the edge.

John Point lit a cigarette. "So that's how you empty a watch house." he said.

"A tavern brawl in Ankh?" Ishmale shook his head. "That'd be sure to make Vimes suspicious."

"A riot in the foreign quarter wouldn't." Point countered.

"And would be damn easy to start too, the way things are between Serap and Pseudopolis." Elisie said pensively, leaning on the balustrade. She had been given the job of casing the King's Way watch house and been in the middle of her report when word of the happenings on Short Street had sent everybody to the roof to watch the fun.

"Why'd they have to keep the damn keys in the main office anyway?" Ishmale grumbled.

"To make it harder for us of course," Point answered. He smiled around his cigarette. "But not hard enough! Get your people together, Ishmale, we've got plans to lay."

-----

"Once upon a time - I say that because I really don't know how long ago it was -" Marie-Suzette began. "There was a young wizard on the Isle of Sigh who sought the Truth. Not the truth about anything in particular you understand just - Truth. Unfortunately he found her."

"Isle of Sigh?" Vimes frowned. "Where is that?"

"Nowhere. It doesn't exist anymore." Marie-Suzette said flatly. "Nor do the cities of Sat Gonim or High Pergola."

Vimes' eyes narrowed. "Oh yes?"

"The wizard found Truth," Marie-Suzette said grimly. "And having looked upon her unveiled face he went mad."

Vimes nodded slowly. He could believe that.

Carrot protested, "But truth is a good thing!"

"Yes," his cousin agreed. "But naked Truth is a very terrible thing for any mere mortal to face. Our young wizard couldn't handle it. Having seen Truth he saw the Truth of everything - and found it too ugly to bear. And so he set out to first destroy the Lies that make life endurable and, when Truth was all that was left, destroy that too."

"Starting with this Isle of Sigh?" said Vimes.

"So I assume. Somehow he survived and reached Sat Gonim on Whale Bay - you've probably heard the legend of its destruction."

"No," said Vimes.

"Yes." Carrot was pale. "They say the people tore down the buildings with their bare hands, then they ripped up the streets and beat each other to death with the cobblestones."

Marie-Suzette nodded. "I've seen the ruins, that's exactly what happened. High Pergola was a floating city above the Octarine Grass country. Now it's a very large, black crater just south of Hergen which was his next target."

"Hergen is still there?" Vimes asked doubtfully. Surely he'd seen Hergenese ships in port just recently?

"Yes, thank Ephebe. Another cousin of mine is king there, a cousin on the pointy hat side of the family -"

Vimes interrupted. "Beg pardon?"

Marie-Suzette smiled ruefully. "Most of the royalty is on Daddy's side but Mum comes from a long line of Ramtops witches and Granddad used to be a wizard. Cosmo the Blue of Startower is my uncle and King Rolland's too -"

"Cosmo the Blue!" Sergeant Pessimal looked up from the notebook he had been industriously filling. "He's just one of those stories -" Marie-Suzette smiled. "Isn't he?" A.E. ended on a note of uncertainty.

"Sorry, no. He's absolutely real - and my uncle as I mentioned, which is how I got involved in all this." Marie-Suzette resumed her story. "Uncle Cosmo, Annabeth - one of the pointy hat cousins - and Bobbs - King Rolland I mean - managed to get the better of the Soothsayer, as he calls himself. A seventh level wizard, a Rose (2) witch and a True King make a pretty powerful combination. They saved Hergen but he got away from them so they called me in and I've been tracking him ever since, almost a year now."

"To Ankh-Morpork." Vimes said flatly.

Marie-Suzette shook her head. "No, but he's coming here, I'm sure of it. We actually met face to face in Lancre. I didn't get him, unfortunately, but he said something about going to the 'rotten center of the world'."

"And naturally you assumed that meant Ankh-Morpork," Vimes said dryly.

"Well...yes," she admitted, a little embarrassed. "Which in a way was a good thing since one of the very few men I know of capable of facing naked Truth lives here, Dr. Rincewind of Unseen University."

"Rincewind?!" Vimes echoed incredulously.

"Rincewind..." Carrot said thoughtfully, then nodded. "Yes, I do believe you're right."

"Rincewind is a card carrying coward - and proud of it - and as unmagical a person as I've ever met in my life but he is also one of the most effective heroes on the Disc." Marie-Suzette, said crisply. "We've worked together before." She smiled. "Under protest on his part of course."

Carrot also smiled faintly.

Marie-Suzette met the Vimes hundred league stare levelly. "I know Rincewind can face the Truth of himself...and maybe he's not the only one in this city who can?"

The steely gaze did not waver. "That kind of Truth can be damn ugly, Miss Suzette."

She didn't blink either. "I know, your Grace. And so, I think, do you."

"Oh yes," Sam Vimes said softly, eyes turning bleakly inward. "Oh yes, indeed."

-----

1. Smitheus is the Disc god of smiths and metal-craft.

2. 'Rose' is the name of Marie-Suzette's witch lineage. They are as famous in the Turnwise Ramtops as the Weatherwaxes are in the Widdershin.


	9. Chapter 9

Rincewind stalked down the darksome, pre-dawn alleys of the Shades muttering angrily - but not to himself. The luggage was right at his heels, multiple feet scurrying to keep up, somehow managing to project an air of sympathetic interest.

"How many times have I saved the disc now, four or five? But do they say, 'good old Rincewind, he's done enough. let's pick on somebody else now' no they do not!" The wizzard ranted. "An attack on Dunmanifestin? A chronophagus creature from the Dungeon Dimension putting the munch on time? A mad wizard out to destroy the world - get Rincewind!" Long arms waved as his voice rose indignantly. "Never mind Rincewind's got no magic! Never mind he doesn't know which end of a sword to grab! Got something suicidaly dangerous to do? Send for Rincewind!"

"The penalty of success, I'm afraid."

Rincewind jumped half a foot, twisted round in mid-air and came down hard, spraining an ankle. "Owwww!"

The Luggage pivoted on its axis towards the voice, growling aggressively in defense of its master. Marie-Suzette, wrapped in her faintly luminous swan feather cloak, sat on a barrel at the far end of the lane. She hopped down and walked towards them. The Luggage's manner changed abruptly as it recognized her. It gamboled to meet the princess and bumped, purring, against her legs.

Rincewind glared, hopping on one foot as he rubbed his ankle. "Don't do that!"

"Sorry." She shoved the Luggage out of the way and took his arm. "Here, lean on me."

"I don't suppose a broken ankle gets me out of fighting mad wizards? No of course not!"

"Don't be silly, Rincewind, if it'd broken we'd have heard the snap," Marie-Suzette replied. "Can't be worse than a sprain. I'll wrap it up when we get back to the University and you'll be good as new."

"You're about thirty years too late for that!"

She laughed, then asked; "Still no sign?"

"No. Too much to hope the fellow decided to go elsewhere - of course it is!"

"I'm afraid so." She shot a curious, sidelong look at her companion. "You're a strange man, Rincewind."

He snorted. "For wanting a quiet life? I don't think so!"

"Not that. You've faced down Dark Lords, Evil Gods, Grand Viziers and Sourcerors. You've been through hell and the Dungeon Dimension, and are on a first name basis with Death." A thought struck. "What is your first name, Rincewind?"

"Professor," he answered grimly.

Marie-Suzette laughed. " My point is, after surviving all that how can you possibly be afraid of anything?"

"Because I want to go on surviving, that's why!"

"Good answer." She turned serious. "Well if it's any comfort to you we've got one less worry, Duke Vimes knows all about our problem."

"Our problem? Your problem, missy, I'm a reluctant conscript!" Rincewind paused, frowned. "I thought you wanted to keep the Watch out of this?"

Marie-Suzette shrugged. "I did. Duke Vimes asked me a direct question, what could I do but tell all?"

"Nothing." Rincewind knew Vimes, and knew much better than to cross him.

"He's a remarkable man," she said thoughtfully. "As remarkable as you in his way. He may be very helpful."

Rincewind failed to see any resemblance whatsoever between himself and Sam Vimes. "How? by arresting this Soothsayer of yours?" He thought again, Vimes had arrested a dragon, and two armies and Vetinari. Maybe...

"He knows the truth of himself," Marie-Suzette answered. "As you do, my friend, meaning the Soothsayer has no weapon against either of you."

"He can still blast us," Rincewind said gloomily.

----

Now he had a plan John Point saw no reason to let the grass grow under their feet. To say his gang was taken aback by this would be to indulge in understatement.

"Today?" Ishmale repeated, stunned.

"This very morning," Point answered emphatically. "Why not? You all know what to do."

"But - in broad daylight?" Ishmale stammered.

"I know you're used to working by night," Point conceded but in this case day is better. The Night Watch is tougher and they expect trouble. Their colleagues on the dayshift are more easygoing."

"And Captain Carrot, the sergeants and especially Commander Vimes will be getting some sleep after the excitement last night," Elisie mused.

Point beamed at her. Clever girl, she had a real future in the guild! "Exactly."

"The master's got a good point there, Mr. Ishmale," Cosher said.

"I can see that." Ishmale grimaced. "It's just the paradigm shift is making me dizzy."

-----

"Do you feel like somebody's watching us, Nicht?"

"Canna say that I do," the pictsie answered, lazily opening his eyes. He was lounging on his partner's shoulder, back resting against her neck. "You're still on edge, lassie, relax."

Precious looked around as well as she could without moving her head and spilling Nicht. It was half past nine in Marbletown and the high and mighty merchants were finally bestirring themselves. Carriages rolled past on their way to dockside offices. High bred Klatchian riding horses minced daintily in the opposite direction carrying elegantly habited equestriennes to Hide Park for the requisite morning ride. The sidewalks on the other hand were almost empty, the early flood of butchers, bakers and other delivery men having dried up until late afternoon. Precious couldn't see anybody given them so much as a second glance. These days coppers were an accepted part of the landscape anywhere in Ankh-Morpork. But the little hairs on her nape kept prickling.

"Maybe you're right, Nicht," she said finally. She sighed; "This used to be such a nice quiet beat, now you never know what's going to happen next."

"Don't go borrowing trouble, lass, says I."

"I know," said Precious.

A few hundred feet in front of them a bright blue carriage with an elaborate coat of arms emblazoned on the doors made a sharp u-turn cutting off a pretentious equipage lavishly decorated with gilt. A fur hatted head stuck itself out of the window of the second coach to shout at the blue one. A hand emerged to make a rude gesture emphasized by a fluttering lace cuff. Traffic began to pile up behind both.

"Uh oh." Precious picked up her pace as Nicht came upright on her shoulder. "Looks like trouble's found us."

----

At nine fifty-five sharp Melville Ishmale marched into the Kingsway Watchhouse, a stunning vision of sartorial perfection from the top of his tall beaver hat to the toes of his patent leather boots, dragging a sobbing Banty Joe roughly by the arm with an equally indignant and overdressed Elisie Meeram right behind. The coppers, criminals and distressed citizens at the side desks looked up with interest.

The dwarf corporal behind the tall duty desk frowned. "Yes, sir? What seems to be the problem."

"The problem," Ishmale said, shaking Banty Joe by her arm. "Is this bit of skirt tried to pick my lady's pocket and she hasn't got a thief's license!"

"I do - I do! I just dropped it when this bastard grabbed me," cried Banty Joe. "That's assault that is - and on a guild member in good standing."

"We'll need some proof of that," said the corporal. "And far as I can remember there's nothing that says a victim's got to submit to being robbed if he or she feels otherwise."

-----

Myrtle street was like a keg of oil, all it took was a match to make it blow. A clot of carriages, some overturned, others missing wheels and horses, clogged the road with fancy dressed foreign merchants throwing punches around, in and on top of them cheered on by native Morporkian coach and footmen.

Precious waded through the fray, her eye fixed on the lace cuffed Serapian who had started it all. Cosher Berk saw her coming, slashed the harness of a horse already near hysteria and gave it a sharp poke to send it charging and trampling in Precious's path.

"Look out, Presh!" Nicht cried as the beast came at them. She looked around to find she was completely hemmed in by coaches, one on it's side. Before she could do anything about it the horse had reached them. Nicht covered his eyes.

It reared high, hooves clawing sky, and kept right on going up. Precious' jaw fell in the other direction as she saw it was being lifted, right off its hooves, by a heavily muscled young barbarian. He raised the frantically thrashing animal high over his head, exposed muscles rippled and strained as he held the pose. Everybody froze mid-punch and kick to stare in disbelief. Then the barbarian moved, hurling the horse over the downed cart to land with crash in somebody's rose bushes. The battle resumed

Precious saw the animal scramble to its feet, whinnying indignantly, then the breath exited her lungs with a whoosh as the barbarian slung her over his shoulder and carried her right out of the fray. Nicht, dislodged by the impact sailed in a high arch over a number of fur and silk hats to land on the back of the horse, now tranquilly munching sweetpeas and pansies in the garden. It threw up its head with a start.

Nicht looked frantically around for his partner but she and the barbarian had disappeared into the fray. He scrambled up the horse's neck to grab it by the ear. "C'mon you great beastie, I need a ride!"

----

"Speaking of licenses," Banty Joe said pointing rudely at Elisie. "Where's the whore's?"

Elisie inflated like a multi-colored balloon. "What did you call me?"

"Whore!" the girl shouted back. "And in the middle of the morning too!"

Elisie gave a shriek and launched herself at Banty Joe. Ishmale hastily let go of the girl's arm and the two rolled over and over on the floor, tearing at each other's hair and clothes.

"Modiste!" cried Ishmale, wringing his hands, then to the desk corporal; "Do something!"

At that exact moment the doors were smashed open by a panting, foaming black gelding with Nicht clinging to its forelock. "Riot!" he cried. "Riot on Myrtle!"

The corporal grabbed the axe leaning against the side of his desk and hurtled over it. "Follow me!"

In the twinkle of a steel helmet the room was empty of coppers. Seeing that the perpetrators and honest citizens left behind were completely absorbed in Elisie and Banty Joe's catfight - they were down to their frilly undergarments and it looked like those would go flying at any moment - Ishmale calmly walked behind the duty desk and opened the key cabinet.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam Vimes stood in the corridor to the cells, meditatively puffing on his small cigar. The two men - well man and zombie - from King's Way stood at attention waiting for his notice. "Corporal Easy, if I ask why my cells are full of rats am I going to regret it?"

"I think it's a safe bet, sir," the Corporal answered, poker faced.

Vimes sighed, "Give it to me anyway, Easy."

Point and Cosher had removed themselves from the scene long before the men - er, make that two men, two dwarfs, a zombie and a pictsie - from King's Way watch house arrived on the scene. However the affray they had started had by then assumed the dimensions of a full blown riot. The half-dozen coppers were badly outnumbered and their efforts to bring the situation under control unavailing - until the battling nobs had suddenly collapsed into so many fancy empty suits. Taken by surprise the watchmen had simply stood blankly in the sudden peace and quiet - until the first bewildered, be-wiskered nose had poked itself out from under a velvet morning coat.

Sam Vimes struggled, without complete success, to contain his hilarity. "Turned them into rats did she?"

Easy didn't even try to hide his grin. "Yessir. According to Miss Suzette they should turn back in an hour or so."

"In the nuddy?"

"Afraid so, sir."

Vimes swallowed a chortle. "Ahem! Right then, better see if you can round up some clothes for the sake of public decency, then notify their next of kin to come and bail them out. Tickets for the Patrician's court all around."

"Yessir!" Easy was clearly set to enjoy himself.

"Good work, Corporal," said Vimes, "And you too, Lance Constable."

Lance Constable Sir Chadwick Alverson snapped to, beaming all over his gray face. "Thank you, sir!"

Normally Sam Vimes had no use for Sirs - despite being one himself - and not much more for zombies but Alverson was a special case. Not even Vimes could help feeling a bit sorry for the man. Not so much because his partners had pushed him out, claiming that death - even if temporary - dissolved his connection with the mercantile firm of Pratt, Whitewall and Alverson, but because his wife of thirty three years had gone into strong hysterics every time she laid eyes on him.

"How's it going with Lady Alverson, Lance Constable?" Vimes asked sympathetically.

"She's adjusting, sir. She's let me move back into the house and sit with her in the mornings. My fault really, I shouldn't have kept popping in on her without warning like that, would have driven anybody to vapors."

"Very true," Vimes agreed. "Where is Miss Suzette now, Easy?"

"Up in your office, sir. I presumed you'd want to have a word with her."

"You presumed correctly, Corporal," Vimes started for the stair, then a thought struck: Young Easy was a good copper, a VERY good copper. He was what, twenty-five or so? Reasonably personable so far as Vimes could judge - he turned back. "Oh, Corporal, I want a guard set on my house. Lady Sybil and young Sam are all alone there most nights lately -" barring half a dozen servants ! " - and with all the unrest I'm sure she'd feel better knowing a watchman was at hand - take care of it yourself will you?"

"Glad to, sir."

Vimes mounted the spiral stone steps filled with the pleasant sensations of a man who has successfully completed a commission from his wife.

----

Marie-Suzette rose from the straight backed wooden chair as he entered. "Your Grace."

"Miss Suzette." He crossed to his desk and sat. "We seemed doomed to see a lot of each other."

"My desire to remain out of your Grace's notice has clearly died a-borning," she said ruefully.

Vimes rewarded her with one of his brief snorts of laughter and leaned back in his chair. "Why rats?"

She shrugged. "Rats are easy, your Grace. They're a lot like people, you know, all it takes is a little twitch of the morphic field."

"What I meant is why magic instead of talking them down like before." said Vimes.

"Oh." Marie-Suzette considered. "I guess I just felt witchy."

Vimes choked on his smoke. It took him a few minutes to recover. Marie-Suzette watched him hopefully. This interview seemed to be going much better than the last. She'd been right, attitude was the way to go.

Vimes mopped his eyes and re-lit his cigar. "You are a problem, Miss Suzette and I don't need any more problems."

"I'm very sorry, your Grace, but if you think I'm trouble just wait until the Soothsayer gets here!"

"Which is why I'm not buying a ticket and putting you on the next stage to Serap," he replied. "You also seem to be the solution to my other current problem - namely your countrymens' rumbles with the Pseudopolitans." He took a bit of cast brass from under his breastplate and extended it to her. "I'm enlisting you as a temporary special constable, Miss Suzette. This is not an offer, it's an order."

"Yes, your Grace," she said meekly, taking the badge, the glint of his eye telling her that this was not a moment for attitude.

"Specials get an allowance of five dollars a week," he continued, "which solves the problem of you making a living while in our fair city. Ask for Sergeant Littlebottom, she'll get you kitted out."

Marie-Suzette came to attention and saluted. "Yes, your Grace!"

"And it's not 'your Grace' it's Commander or sir."

"Yes, sir!"

----

"Sor!"

Vimes froze, foot lifted and looked cautiously at the floor. Sure enough there was one of his gnome officers right in his path. He put his boot down carefully. "Sorry about that, Constable - Naethin isn't it?"

"Yes, sor. A word with you, sor?"

As there was nothing for the pictsie to jump up on Vimes lowered himself to a knee to put them at a more comfortable conversational distance. "What's on your mind, Naeithin?"

"'T'is my partner, sor, Constable Jolson. She hasn't been seen since the donnybrook Ankh-side."

"What," Vimes frowned. "You mean she hasn't reported in?"

"No, sor. I thought she'd turn up at King's Way but it's been three hours now and no sign of her."

"Gods! she couldn't have been turned into a rat could she?"

"Don't think so, sor. You see she was carried off before the uncanny lass showed up."

"Carried off?" Vimes blinked in shock, Precious Jolson was no featherweight!

"Yes, sor. Some lad, dressed - or undressed - as one of those Hublander heros slung her over his shoulder and carried her right out of yon affray. I thought she'd sort him out in short order - Precious being the great hulking lass she is, sor - but there's been no sign of her since and I'm becoming main worried."

Sam Vimes' countenance set in the grim lines that had earned him the name 'Old Stoneface'. Precious Jolson was surely a girl who could take care of herself, a fine copper too, but even the best occasionally got in over their head. "Did you recognize the man?"

The pictsies brow crinkled in thought. "He did seem a mite familiar, sor. Mind you all you Biggers look alike - begging your pardon, sor -"

"Granted," said Vimes.

"But I fancy I did see this particular one in the course of the dust up last nicht past. Precious subdued him in short order let me tell you -" he broke off, a look of alarm on his face.

The same thought had occurred to Sam Vimes. Perps were known to hold grudges. He scooped Naethin up in one hand and strode with him into the main office. "ATTENTION!" He had it instantly, coppers, complainants and offenders all freezing mid-motion, mid-word.

"Officer in trouble," Vimes continued, voice ringing loud in the sudden silence. "Last seen in Marbletown in company of a perp dressed as a Barbarian Hero. I want a sweep of the deosil warfs, the Drum and other known Barb hangouts. MOVE!"

----

Whether Precious was in trouble or not was a matter of dispute, she herself was in a very divided mind on the subject.

It had been a matter of moments before she got her breath back and began to kick and pound her kidnapper's muscular back with her fists. He took it for a bit before finally putting her down in some waterfront back alley.

She promptly gave him her best right to the jaw. He rocked back on his heels but quickly regained his balance and swept her into a big, wet, passionate kiss.

Precious Jolson had been kissed by a man before - if goodnight kisses from her father counted - but never, ever like this! Her head was spinning from lack of oxygen and unaccustomed emotions a condition the first words from his lips did nothing to cure:

"You are the most magnificent and beautiful woman on the disc! You must be mine!"

Precious gaped and sputtered and finally managed to blurt out the first words that came into her addled head; "What is your name?"


End file.
